Apex Science Fiction and Horror Digest #11 Page 6

  Catching the ball. For clumsy children who suffered from being mocked by their peers.

  Speaking in front of a hostile audience. For academics.

  Spinnetje crouched and jumped up in the air, once, twice. It turned around, stood still.

  Milo smiled. “Impatient, are we?"

  He held the spider to his ear, felt its legs prick his earlap, and swallowed. He felt like throwing up.

  Roaming in Terri's brain, Spinnetje hadn't recorded anything specific. It had absorbed what it could get. Milo was about to experience what it was like to be Terri.

  He felt for the spider. It flattened and dissolved. His head turned warm.

  * * * *

  Milo remained aware of himself, a dot of consciousness flowing in a shroud of perceptions. No images. Alien thoughts in a female, high-pitched voice bit into him like barbed wire. Terri's vocabulary engulfed him, her thought-voice dark chocolate now, words grown from the thicket of childhood.

  She-doo for shoe. Ba ba for man. Female, perfume, admiring male looks snapping around her waist like fire whips.

  To gaze out into the world from behind a mask of make-up. To feel the tip of your nose burn with hair-scent, with others’ expectations. To balance on a smooth surface, on the tip of your toes. To bend and twist and always move ahead, nose first, scented hair flowing behind. To shrink and bulge.

  Milo picked up emotions that shook him and let go like a vigorous breeze. Anger, shame, joy.

  Words bounced in: “Salty."

  "Too hot!"

  "No."

  "My pink cream birdie. So sweet."

  "Excited, are we?"

  "Pitty-pat. Your heart goes pitty-pat. Hear that?"

  "Ten-fifty."

  "Out of twenty."

  Other words, brown and cursive, the script of Terri's thoughts, spun in a spiral. “More. Milo. More. Out. Open, taste buds!"

  Food came in, a coil of flavors popped in her mouth. Slime, foam, and crisp morsels begging to be eaten. Terri became all tongue, red and meaty. She and Milo rolled out and licked, savored, swallowed.

  More words. Formal capitals nourished Terri's straight spine. Pride.

  Milo couldn't follow; he could only drift. He closed what he thought of as his eyes and rode Terri's perceptions, jerked with her movements, let everything wash around the pebble of his self.

  For a moment, he wondered whether he would return. He could see himself lying on the cot of his lab, drooling and groaning. Perhaps his brain had turned into mucus by now. Disembodied, he laughed.

  A spray of orange, color and scent, coexisted with the need to shit. Terri and he consumed and emitted, transformed and conserved.

  The experiences piled up like a stack of two-dimensional line drawings that, placed on top of each other, yielded a three-dimensional image.

  The essence of Terri?

  She twisted toward any opening as a plant would. She spread her petals to new light, new scents and sounds. She reached out und unfolded. If he had to paint one image of her, he'd paint a fishing net tossing itself into the sea of life.

  Milo woke up. A cold, metal pellet pushed against his cheek. Spinnetje. A glance at his watch told him he'd been gone five hours.

  * * * *

  Terri came home late that night, as always. In the living room, she groaned and kicked her shoes into a corner. Her hair shone in a new shade of blonde, one of the few artificial enhancements she permitted herself.

  "What a day,” she said. “I want it back.” She tousled her hair and blew up her cheeks. Her eyelids twitched.

  Milo observed her from the sofa. The simulation had kindled the acuity of his observations.

  Two lines tugged at the corners of Terri's mouth. Lean bones shifted inside her hands. Her wedding band slid toward her knuckle. She walked to Milo, red toenails peeking through transparent tights, imprints of her shoe straps crossing over her feet.

  Milo supplemented Terri's tentative walk and her slack face with emotions he could tease out of the plethora of simulation memories. She walked past him in a cloud of day-old perfume, and from his memories emerged the stink of sweat. Terri lowered her head with an apologetic smile. He remembered painful steps, bones sticking in throbbing flesh, the soothing pain of a cold surface. He had felt what she felt when she walked down their hallway barefooted after a day in high heels.

  She dropped into a chair at the table and stretched her arms, making a joint or two in her torso go ‘pop.’ Her thin-waisted body bent like a snake.

  Milo stared at her in wonder. He understood what the simulation had done to him. His perception and knowledge of Terri had changed. She'd become a vessel of mysterious sensations, a treasure trove of memories. He wanted to dig deeper.

  She said, “I'm so hungry."

  Milo went to the fridge. Could he anticipate Terri's cravings, or was it too early for that? He probed his memory and found blandness ... paper dough, processed pulp, a flat line of taste through which grain and orange juice spiked in the mornings.

  He said, “Proposal—I cook something spicy for you.” He remembered her mentioning a dish on the phone. “Some pasta with pepper powder and real olives. Just let me order them. It'll be a couple of minutes."

  He typed the order into the kitchen computer. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught her incredulous smile.

  "You and spicy?” she asked. “What happened to Egg-Meal and Cheese?"

  He ventured forward. “You're in the mood for something spicy today."

  She started and, after a second, laughed. “Okay. You're right.” She propped her feet onto the second chair. “I had an all-day argument with Jake. I messed up the data from the infants. I just looked at the spreadsheets and.... “She shook her head and rubbed her brow. “I don't know what it was. He basically had to walk me through the analyses again, and again, and again. Embarrassing."

  "He adores you. I'm sure it made him happy."

  Terri shrugged. “If he likes retarded women."

  Milo rolled his eyes. “You just had a bad day, that's all."

  The supply chute beeped, signaling the arrival of olives, pepper, and pasta.

  The preparation of the dish wasn't an easy feat for Milo, who hadn't known that real olives had pits. But Terri, silent with hunger, ate without complaint.

  Small muscles shifted in her jaws. Milo caught himself chewing in synch with her. Soon, he would be experiencing the sensations of this meal from inside her. He would be the homunculus hiding inside her brain, or maybe cuddling next to it, immersed in its whispers. His fantasy had come true.

  Terri wiped her nose. “This is super spicy. Great."

  "I knew you'd like it."

  "How?"

  "I have my sources,” Milo said.

  She frowned. “By the way, where have you been today? You were offline all day. I waited for the hazelnut data."

  "You waited for the hazelnut data.” He imagined a string of zeroes and ones, with hazelnuts instead of zeroes, and laughed out loud.

  Terri frowned harder. “Hazelnuts are tricky. You know that."

  "Very tricky. But not as tricky as you. By far."

  She put down her silverware and leaned back in her chair. “I'm tricky?"

  "And complex,” he said. “But I'll crack you."

  She glanced at him as if he were a problem she had to puzzle out. She didn't look tired anymore. At last, she leaned closer and touched Milo's hand. “Just you try cracking me."

  He imagined the taste of pepper and olives on her tongue, her leather belt cutting into her waist. He smiled back. “I will."

  She kissed him. It had been a long time.

  * * * *

  She fell asleep past midnight, legs wrapped around the blanket. Milo tickled her earlobe. She jerked away, but didn't wake up.

  Milo debated with himself. Could he send Spinnetje on another exploration into Terri's brain? He itched to see metal spider legs caress her earlobe. And why not? Spinnetje hadn't harmed Terri. It had brought them closer toge
ther. It could do even more, given more information.

  He gave in, fetched Spinnetje and knelt next to his wife. As soon as he opened his fingers, the spider lunged at Terri's ear. All intelligence craved to learn. Milo smiled, proud of his creation.

  Spinnetje squeezed into Terri's ear hole as if pressing itself into the flesh, speeding its dissolution. Terri smacked her lips together and swallowed.

  A knot loosened in Milo's chest. He realized how afraid he had been that he might never taste Terri's perception again, might become as severed from her as before. He crept underneath the blanket and held her. She stretched in his arms, ribs and muscles straining against his chest, and he held her tighter, relishing the knowledge that her muscles, skin, and bones were not enough to keep him out.

  * * * *

  Soon, Milo was using Spinnetje every night. He couldn't indulge in simulations every day, because he had to keep up with his work for Vex. He accumulated a backlog of simulations that he enjoyed one hour at a time, once or twice a week, with many more hours left for the future.

  During his days without the simulated Terri, he entertained the real one with new foods she might crave, musicals, concerts, sex. He fattened her mind with new impressions.

  One night, he undressed her and asked her to remain limp and let him arrange her limbs on the bed. He propped a pillow underneath her head and spread her arms. He bent her left knee such that her left sole pushed against the side of her right leg. She looked like a ballerina, frozen into stillness by a camera. Her skin shimmered. He stroked her legs and hips, molding her muscles. For a moment, he was torn between savoring the experience as Milo and as Terri. He dipped his tongue into her bellybutton, grasping her buttocks reverently, excited with the promise of harvesting her experience, all of her experiences, all of her.

  * * * *

  Weeks passed. During the simulations, Milo gradually learned to recognize specific images and scenes.

  One time, Terri danced. Whether in a dream or in reality, Milo couldn't tell. She spun around her axis, flat and light as a butterfly, wings fluttering in the surge of her spinning, until her feet left the ground and she flew away along the high rises with their breakfast bubbles, into the freedom of white cotton balls and blue sky.

  After the dance simulation, Milo felt emptiness instead of his usual exuberance. It had been the happiest he'd ever experienced Terri, and she had been alone. She hadn't asked him to dance with her.

  He scratched his sweaty brow. His belly spread under his t-shirt. His shoulders slumped. No, he wasn't her match as a dancer. He could only watch her, sneak a peek here and there, but he couldn't join her. He couldn't join her in anything.

  Come to think of it, she had grown more distant lately, accepting his offerings of food, games, and sex rather than enjoying them. Small things, such as forgetting to call Housekeeping Services or botching routine assignments at Vex, bothered her. She ate his food without comment. Sometimes when they made love she clung to him as if to shake herself awake, then groaned in frustration. He tried to talk to her but she would shrug and turn away.

  They still had good times—feeding each other fruit bits or reading each other jokes from the Sunday Transmit—but at that moment, stinging from being excluded from Terri's dance, Milo only remembered the moments of defeat.

  He burped. Synthetic onion.

  Onion ... food ... he remembered the dinner after the first simulation, when he had guessed the food she craved based on the simulation. It had opened her up to him, surprised and enchanted her.

  His mistake had been to forget about that evening in favor of secretly enjoying his insider's knowledge of his wife's psyche. He slapped his thigh. From now on, he would use his knowledge to make her smile and feel safe. He would anticipate her every need. He would make her dreams come true and become part of her world again, part of her thoughts and fantasies. Simulations and reality would melt into one. Spinnetje would disappear into its box.

  She would ask him to dance.

  * * * *

  Milo moved the furniture against the walls of the apartment and pushed a music stick into the stereo. A synthetic barrel organ played a waltz.

  When Terri came home, he walked toward her so fast he stumbled. She had to steady him. He led her into the living room, put one arm around her waist, and grabbed her hand in an imitation of a waltz demonstration he had picked up online. He took a step and hit her knee with his.

  She winced and rubbed her kneecap. “What's this all about?"

  "I want to dance with you."

  She bent and stretched her knee. “Cripple me, more likely."

  "You'd rather dance alone?"

  "No."

  Her blatant lie angered him. “Come on,” he said. “You do. I know you do."

  "What are you talking about?"

  He said, “I know you like to dance alone. Don't deny it. I know you. I know things about you."

  She took a few steps back. Her heels clicked on the stone floor. “Okay. I do. If it makes you happy.” She bumped into the wall. Her skin mirrored the off-white paint.

  "So,” he said, “what are you waiting for? Dance!"

  She shook her head. Her mouth formed soundless syllables. The synthesized waltz picked up speed.

  "Dance!” he yelled, then flinched. How dare he shout at her? How would this come across in the simulations?

  Milo and Terri stared at each other. The waltz reached new heights of saccharine delirium. Terri shook herself out of her pose, turned off the speakers, and walked out of the living room. The music stick hummed for some moments, unamplified. When silence returned, Milo found himself alone. His hot face didn't cool down for a long time.

  That night, he humbly approached her as she lay in bed. He kissed her ribs, crouching next to her like a repentant dog. She didn't refuse him. He tilted her face and found her eyes closed, her mouth frowning indifferently.

  "I'm sorry,” he whispered. He cupped one of her breasts in his hand and moved the orange-sized lump of flesh around in its skin. The nipple, root of purple veins, seemed to stare him down. Goose bumps grew under his fingertips. Out of habit, Milo tried to anticipate the feeling of his own hand—his squeezes and strokes and kisses—

  Terri sat up. “What are you doing? What's so fascinating about my breast?"

  Milo's hand lay on her thigh now. He couldn't answer. His failure to connect with her paralyzed him.

  "You're always doing this lately,” she murmured. “You do all these things to me, but where are you? What are you thinking? Right now?"

  Milo, recoiling from her question, moved to his side of the bed.

  "God,” Terri said, rubbing her brow. “I can't think straight anymore."

  Milo struggled for an answer to soothe her. He couldn't find any. What was he thinking? What would Spinnetje find if someone sent it down Milo's brain?

  It would find a black, greedy vortex, sucking, absorbing, and destroying, until nothing was left for anyone else to experience or understand or love.

  * * * *

  Milo held up his fork with a piece of pancake and drew eights in the air. Jake followed the pattern with his blue, computer-taxed eyes. Both of them felt uncomfortable in public spaces, but silently agreed that never going out together would make their friendship pitiful.

  Milo swallowed the piece of pancake and coughed. “Can't get used to chewing so damn much."

  "That homemade stuff is odd,” Jake agreed. He had ordered a selection of liquids himself and nipped on different colored straws in a manner that reminded Milo of a HummingBot.

  "So,” Milo said, “how's it going? A light at the end of the tunnel?” It was their code for Jake's love life, which had been marred early on by an unrequited crush on Terri.

  Jake shook his head. His long chin pushed against a straw. “Nope. They stay one night and don't leave a note. Women."

  Not too long ago, Milo would have echoed the complaint with a remark on Terri's long hours and her endless phone calls with a horde of fri
ends. Jake would have agreed that this was suspicious. As it became late, Milo would have speculated whether Terri had an affair with some nutrition specialist or even a lowly intern. It was Milo's and Jake's routine.

  Spinnetje, however, had changed things.

  Milo longed for the old, uncomplicated days of mild jealousy and “women!” huffs. He put his dirty silverware on the plate and wiped it off the table. The plate folded into a ball, tucking leftovers and silverware inside his core, and bounced off toward the kitchen.

  Milo leaned across the table, glanced at Jake through the straw array, and said, “Can you imagine what it's like to understand women?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "Well.” How to explain this without technical details? “Imagine you could read their minds."

  Jake sighed. “I try to do that all the time. I always want to talk. I ask them what they're thinking, and they flutter their lashes and giggle. Say, Miles?"

  "Huh?"

  "What's the deal with you and Terri?"

  Milo sighed. “That's exactly what I mean. Good example. See, I understand her. Really understand her. You'd think that'd be a great thing, but it turns out—” He stopped when Jake flinched. “What's the matter?"

  "Nothing,” Jake said.

  "Come on."

  Jake pushed his bottles aside. They, too, changed into small balls and bounced away between the legs of chairs, tables, and people.

  "I shouldn't have asked,” Jake said.

  "Why did you, then?"

  Jake fumbled with his sleeves.

  Milo joined him. At the same moment, they turned up their caffeine cannulas.

  "Come on,” Milo said. “Spill."

  "She seems a bit confused lately, that's all, and I thought you guys had a problem. I wanted to offer my help."

  "Did she say we had a problem?"

  Jake bit his lip. “No."

  "What's this all about then?"

  "I don't know. She seems kind of fragile at work lately. She's easy to startle and real nervous when she has to give a presentation or something. She's never been like that."

  Milo nodded. His lips grew numb.